Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 19:1-10

When I was about eighteen I worked for the Forest Service during the summer. I was technically a fire control aide, but there weren't that many fires, so the forest ranger would give us assignments having to do with cleaning up campgrounds and clearing brush. At our ranger station there were three college students, one teacher who was there for summer employment, and a retired Marine sergeant who had never married. He was the boss. And whenever he talked every other word was unprintable. And when he got upset, after listening to him you wanted to take a shower.

Naturally, after about a month all of us were talking like the boss. One day my dad came to see how I was doing and we went out to supper. During our conversation I suddenly became aware that I was talking like my boss, and it was apparent that he didn't appreciate it. I apologized, but pointed out that everyone in our group talked that way. He looked at me and said, “But you are better than that.” From that moment on, I stopped sprinkling my language with words that shouldn't even be heard in locker rooms.

I think that's what is happening in the gospel story today. When you read this story you sometimes get the impression that Zaccheus isn't really a bad guy; he's misunderstood. But that probably isn't the case. He is after all the chief tax collector. That meant that he oversaw the other tax collectors in his district. When the Romans came to collect taxes, Zaccheus had to pay them out of his pocket, and then with the help of Roman soldiers and the other tax collectors, the citizens would be told how much they owed. Zaccheus and the other tax collectors had the right to ask for more than what was strictly owed; it was a commission of sorts. And the system was easy to abuse and tax collectors didn't feel particularly kind-hearted to the people they taxed, who shunned them and considered them sinners. Was Zaccheus a bad guy? Probably. He was wealthy, and he didn't get that way by being fair.

But Jesus comes along and invites Zaccheus into his inner circle. He doesn't condemn him or tell him to stop being a tax collector. He merely invites himself to supper. Instead of shunning him like a good Jew would do, Jesus reminds Zaccheus that he is better than that, better than he himself thought he was. And Zaccheus immediately reacts; he promises to give half his wealth to the poor, and repay four-fold anyone whom he has cheated. If Zaccheus was defending himself and claiming to be an honest man, as some people read this gospel, there was no need for Jesus to declare that “Today salvation has come to this house” and “the Son of Man came to seek and save the lost.” Zaccheus was a sinner and one of the lost; Jesus said, “you are better than that” and conversion happened.

So we always need to say “so what does that story have to do with me?” I don't cheat people, I don't extort, I haven't gained my wealth by dishonest means. In fact I'm not even short and I don't climb trees. It's nice that Jesus forgave Zaccheus, but he's always forgiving people, that's his job.

But Jesus doesn't just forgive. He calls Zaccheus to something higher. In those days to eat with somebody was a sign of intimacy; we still remember this in our weekly Eucharist. When Jesus invites Zaccheus to enter into that more intimate relationship with him, a friendship, Zaccheus' reaction is first, joy, and second, to reach for something higher. In the presence of Jesus, he realizes that he is better than that.

It's no different for you and I. Jesus looks at me and loves me with all my flaws and forgives my sins. But he wants more for me; he wants me to be better; he says, “you are better than that” “you are better than you think you are. And when we hear him say that, we want to be better; it is a moment of grace which allows us to be better; to strive to be the best version of ourselves that we can be. I look back at that moment when I stopped using foul language; it was a sudden thing. And I think that's what happens to some people who are burdened by alcohol or drug addiction who suddenly turn their lives around. For many it is a religious experience, a sudden realization that they are better than that. When we go to Jesus with those habits that lead us into the same old sins over and over again, he will break their hold on us if we let him; because one of the messages we hear in the sacrament of reconciliation is to go and sin no more – those aren't meant to be just words.

But there's another lesson here. Jesus could have been like those people in the crowd who say, “he has gone to be the guest of a sinner.” There is something in us – maybe it's an instinct – that wants to have nothing to do with people who seem to be unlovable. Someone who cheats us; someone who hurts us; someone who acts out of selfishness. The girlfriend who seemed to have a happy marriage and was a faithful churchgoer who suddenly runs off with another man; the friend who is arrested and sentenced to prison for embezzling from his employer; the priest who is suspended from his duties because someone has accused him of a sexual indiscretion. Our reaction is to back off, to have nothing to do with them; because he or she, it turns out, is not the person I thought he or she was.

But Jesus shows us that if we are true Christians; if we are truly trying to imitate our master, then our reaction should always be to say “You are still my friend, and you are better than that.” My brothers and sisters, let this week listen to Jesus as he tells us “you are better than that” and let us have those words on our lips as we go about our daily lives, because many people need to hear them, and who else will speak them if not you and I?

THirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 18:9-14

A friend of mine told me several weeks ago that he was grateful for the wonderful voice God gave him; and he was justly proud of how he had honed that voice, taken instruction in how to use it, and when he sang, he felt like he was giving glory to God. I know a brilliant scientist who loves to uncover the mysteries of nature, and is grateful not only for his mind but for all the opportunities he's had down through the years to use his mind.

So what's the matter with our Pharisee today? After all, he makes it a point to obey every law given by Moses; while we might think some of those laws are pointless, like not eating milk and meat at the same meal, there were many other laws which had to do with charity, with studying the scriptures, with treating your family right – and of course trying to live in such a way as to recognize God is all in all. Most of the Pharisees were really good people. And our Pharisee is probably similar; after all, he tithes, he fasts, and he prays – the three pillars on which we build our relationship to God. So what's with the Pharisee?

And the tax collector. He probably is a sinner, really, and certainly in the eyes of the Jewish authorities. He has sold out his people to work for the Romans. At tax collecting time, he turned over the amount demanded of his region, and then, with the help of Roman soldiers, he went and told everyone how much they owed. He is the one who tells the Roman soldiers that the shopkeeper over there didn't pay his fair share of taxes, and the next thing you know the shopkeeper is minus a shop and maybe thrown in jail. He probably thinks he is so far gone that little things like avoiding pork and shellfish don't hardly matter. And he has to deal with people who aren't Jews; he's got to rifle through the wagon loads of pagans and Samaritans who bring their goods to the city to sell. He's the tax man, and that meant getting dirty.

The tax collector isn't just someone who lives at the edge of proper society; he is the one who everyone knows is chronically dishonest; that's why they had such a bad reputation.

But here's the thing. The Pharisee makes a statement that just isn't true. “I thank you. God, that I am not like the rest of men, not even like this tax collector over here. I am pretty special, and I've worked hard to get where I am.

And the tax collector makes a statement that is completely true, of him, of you, of I, and of the Pharisee; “I am a sinner and I need mercy”.

Now there is kind of a cosmic rule going on here. It isn't that God hates the pharisee and loves the tax collector. He loves them both, as much as he can and that is with infinite love. He wants to be united with each of them; he wants the intimacy of the creator with the creature, the whole reason he became man and died on the cross in the first place.

But for the pharisee, there is no room for God; he denies being like the rest of men; he is the reason for his own goodness, and while he thanks God for this, he is thanking God for what he chooses to do. And the tax collector; he realizes that he's really running on fumes; when he thinks about his life, it seems as though he is hardly up in the morning before he starts to violate God's laws; and by evening all he can do is shake his head and weep. The tax collector is empty, and only in an empty vessel can God make his home. That's what the Tax collector is asking; that's what is meant by mercy – to be given a good thing that we don't deserve.

I think a lot of us are Pharisees; I know that I am. All the things I'm proud of I can say that God had a hand in all these things, but didn't I cooperate with his grace? And don't I still try to live every day according to his Laws? But that's the big mistake; I focus on the good things and I try to ignore that I am a sinner; that every day I miss the mark; I get distracted in my prayers, I get a little short tempered sometimes, I put off things that I should do, I waste too much time – on the computer, on Netflix. But when I go to bed at night I look back on what I did right, not where I went wrong. And that's the entire wrong attitude; I am leaving no room for God's mercy.

Today I think we all need to look at our relationship with God. Are we busy building up treasure in heaven? And we should be, by the way. But if we are, it's only because God works through us, not because of anything that originates from us. As Saint James said, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights....”

The Pharisee was a good man, and did good things. But he thought he was doing God a favor. He thought that because of his actions God owed him something. He was thankful that he had avoided serious sins in his life. Instead of concentrating on what he still needed to do, where he still needed to grow, he focused on his spiritual successes.

The tax collector might have been able to name a few good things also, but instead he looked at where he had failed, where he had missed the mark. And that is the position from which progress can be made, with God's help. Saint Theresa of Avila said, “It is true that we can never be free from sin, but at least let our sins not always be the same.”

It is very hard for you and I to look at ourselves and realize, truly know, that we are sinners. It is hard to know deep in our hearts that our only hope is God's mercy. We may say the words, but unless we can point out each day where we could have done better, where we missed the mark in doing God's will, where we have failed, we have no room for allowing God to rule our lives. And that's what Jesus is talking about when he says, “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 18:1-8

I recently received my annual solicitation letter from the organization called “Madonna of the Streets.” It began many years ago in Buffalo, where a friend of mine, a scientist at Roswell Park, together with a woman who ran a small restaurant, decided to do something about the increasing numbers of homeless people in downtown Buffalo and the surrounding areas. They began by making free meals available at the restaurant. Eventually they were feeding about two hundred people. This required getting support, and that is when they went full time into their efforts. My friend, a husband and father of two grown sons, resigned from his job and began to go door to door raising funds. Being a strong Catholic, he depended on God to provide, and it happened. The ministry now involves a homeless shelter, a homework house, a place where people of the streets can get cleaned up and get some decent clothing and counseling and helped with addiction and many other services available through volunteers – and they work out of an old inner city parish plant that was falling into disrepair. And the ministry of providing nutritious meals to the homeless continues. My friend was troubled by what he saw as injustice, and decided to do something about it.

Today we hear another one of those parables that seems simple on the surface, but probably isn't. Part of the reason is that Saint Luke sets us up; he tells us that Jesus told this parable to emphasize the necessity of praying always without growing weary. And so when we read the parable, we see ourselves represented by the widow and God represented by the judge. And then we expect that if we pray long enough and hard enough our prayers will be answered. And they aren't not always. You and I know that.

But I think we need to look at this parable differently. First, is the judge really standing in for God? Jesus calls him unjust, and he is arrogant, fearing neither God nor man. And he has no intention of listening to the widow. That doesn't sound much like the God Jesus talks about. And then, the widow. In Israel, widows were supposed to be rushed to the head of the line when they complained of injustice; the only ones who had precedence over the widow was the orphan. That was made very clear in the Laws of Moses. Widows and orphans, in fact, were numbered among those who were considered innocent unless proven guilty, the ones who would be called “just ones”, along with other categories; the foreigner in your midst; the poor being another group. Moses and the prophets had made it clear that God was on their side.

So when we keep that in mind, we see a widow who is being denied her God-given right to be heard. But eventually, the judge decides to hear her case and, it says, deliver a just decision for her.

Many of Jesus' parables end with an explicit comparison between someone in the parable and the Father. Remember the one about the father who would not give his son a scorpion if he asked for a fish? But in this parable, Jesus says, “Listen to what the dishonest judge says!” The dishonest judge is being embarrassed by the widow; if we read the original Greek, it would say “because this widow is giving me a black eye...” which was an expression meaning “public shaming”. In other words, despite the character of the judge, despite the fact that he starts out with no intention of hearing the widow's case, justice is eventually done.

So Jesus is telling this story to illustrate that God will deliver justice to his just ones who cry out to him; and Jesus says this will be done speedily. And then he laments, will he find faith on earth when he returns?

The widow never stopped pestering the judge to hear her case. She would call him on the phone, bang on his door, meet him in Starbucks when he was trying to get a coffee, walk up and down his sidewalk carrying a picket sign; she just wouldn't stop. And Jesus is saying the same thing will happen if his just ones do the same thing. If we go out and do something about injustice, if we make a nuisance of ourselves, if we never give up, God will give justice, and the more noise we make, the quicker it will happen. But it isn't happening, and it wasn't happening in Jesus' time, and there aren't many who cry out for justice and of those there aren't many who are persistent. And that's why he worries that he won't find faith.

I suspect any of us who have listened to Christ's words Sunday after Sunday are aware that justice was very high on His priority list. And at the same time we have to admit we could do more to bring about justice, to be the tools God uses to bring about the kingdom of God where justice rules. When we look at all the injustice in the world it is pretty overwhelming. We read about refugees from the middle east, especially Syria, who have lost everything, or the people of North Korea, who live in a country-sized prison. But there is plenty of injustice right here in our area; why shouldn't a kid growing up in Springfield have the same opportunity for education as one growing up in Longmeadow? And indeed, why should anyone have to live out of a shopping cart and seek shelter under a bridge at night? That's happening just a few miles from here.

So I guess a question we should ponder this week is how can we be better instruments of God's justice? Like the judge in Jesus' story I have the power to render justice but don't. Maybe I am the dishonest judge who refuses to render a just judgement.

Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 17:11-19

What seems on the surface to be another healing story may be much deeper than that. After all, what conclusions can we draw for our own lives from the story of the ten lepers? That we should be grateful for what God has done for us? That we should always remember to give thanks? That we should cultivate an attitude of gratitude? Well, of course, those are good things, and we remember that one of the four kinds of prayer is to give thanks. We shouldn't let a day go by without counting our blessings and thanking God for them.

But listen to the gospel closely. First, the lepers cried out to Jesus from afar. They knew who he was, they called him by name, they named him Master. In those days before a person with leprosy was considered healed, he or she had to be inspected by a priest. Why a priest? Moses had laid down the conditions for re-admission into society way back in the book of Leviticus. The priest was to inspect every part of the skin and only if he could see nothing that resembled leprosy would he declare the person officially clean. There was a ceremony that went with that, involving the sacrificing of a dove, the sprinkling of the blood on the former leper, and the release of a second dove. The priests actually did a fair amount of this sort of thing, because there were several skin diseases which seemed to fall under the category of leprosy, and some healed by themselves.

Our ten lepers ask for pity. Obviously they want to be healed but Jesus does not heal them right then and there as he does so with so many other healings; he begins his healing by sending them to the authority who can admit them back into communion with the larger society; the real curse of the lepers is that they are isolated from their families and friends, reduced to begging and living apart from society.

Then on the way they are cleansed. As they were walking along, the disfigurement of their disease left them. Certainly they all noticed this. Nine of them probably danced all the way to the priests – they couldn't wait to complete what Jesus had began, and they were doing exactly what he told them to do. Probably they weren't thinking right then about going back and thanking him, but I'll bet they were thanking God, and I'll bet that if any of them were to run across Jesus in the future, they would thank him. Don't be hard on the nine.

One of the lepers realizes that he has been healed. All knew they were cleansed; one sees that not only is the leprosy gone, but he has been made whole again. That's the root of the word “healed” – to be made whole. The leprosy is gone, but all the consequences of having leprosy are gone as well. He can return to his family, he can go back to his job, he can have the company of his friends. One leper feels overwhelming gratitude because of what has been done, and can't wait to go back and thank Jesus, all the while glorifying God, praising God.

Finally, the leper falls at Jesus' feet and gives thanks. Now Saint Luke sneaks in a little theology here. The leper thanks Jesus, but Jesus says, has none but this foreigner returned to thank God? When you thank Jesus you are thanking God. There is another interesting thing here. Jesus acts surprised. This isn't the only time Jesus is surprised or disappointed; if you read the scriptures you will notice this. Is this because, being God he knows everything and simply acts surprised? I prefer to believe that it's because he's human and humans can be surprised, apparently even if they possess a divine nature. Jesus as a human being, even as the greatest human being ever, goes through life being surprised by God's plan. He is like us in all things except sin. Foreigners, even Samaritans being touched by God – that would be a new one for a Jew of Jesus' time.

But the big thing is that Jesus points out that the man is now saved, and that his faith has saved him. I think saved means more than healed, more than cleansed. It means that this Samaritan has come into the Kingdom of God, the very kingdom which Jesus has been proclaiming, and again, if we read the scriptures, a kingdom to which some have already been admitted, even before Jesus has been crucified and risen from the dead. And it is the Samaritan's faith that is the direct cause of salvation. His faith is what led him to glorify God and to come into Jesus' presence.

If we are Christian, we are aware that God is constantly touching us. Sometimes from a human perspective those touches bring about joy and sometimes sadness. When God touches us, it's like the lepers being cleansed. Often we just passively accept those touches, or we fight against them, but in the end we react, or we do nothing at all. The Samaritan realized that the touch of God which cleansed him affected him far more than “skin – deep.” As we mature in our Christianity we also seek meaning in those moments when we feel God's touch. We try to understand, we try to see where God is leading us. Sometimes when those touches cause suffering, we look into them and see that they are invitations to accompany Christ in his passion journey.

Learning to see the hand of God in the course of our ordinary life leads us to faith, and real faith ultimately leads us to Jesus. God in his mercy gives us everything we need, but ultimately, like the Prodigal Son, like the Samaritan leper, we need to make the decision to accept what God has to offer. That is what faith is all about – trusting in God's mercy, allowing God to take care of us, learning to say with Jesus, “Not my will, but your will be done.”

Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 17:5-10

When I was very young I dreamed about being a cowboy – not a real one, but one like Roy Rodgers, who no one under fifty remembers anymore. He was very skilled with a rope and could lasso a criminal who was riding away on a fast horse. His gun skills were even greater, since he could shoot a gun out of an outlaw's hand without actually hurting the crook. When he went after the bad guys, in the end he would bring them back, singlehandedly, unharmed but bound and harmless. As time went on I shifted my allegiances to Superman. Oh, to fly, to have super strength – and x-ray vision as well. And all the time using my powers for good.

But in my imagination there was another kind of hero as well – the saint who could work miracles. I knew in my heart that I couldn't be another Roy Rodgers or Superman, but it seemed that I could be a saint, someone who could harness the very power of God to do good – and of course the stories of the saints abound with miracles. If I could just be holy enough … if I only knew the right prayers … And even at my age, there are still times when I meet someone with cancer or someone with Alzheimer's disease and wish that I had the kind of faith that would let me lay my hands on that person and cure him.

I think that's the kind of faith the apostles were asking for today. Jesus had demonstrated his ability to effect a miraculous cure, to cast out demons, to even raise the dead. The apostles even got a taste of that when they were sent out by Jesus to all the villages and towns to announce the good news. And just before this gospel reading. Jesus has been telling them that they have to learn to forgive “seventy times seven” and that if one of them scandalized a little one it would be better for that person to have a millstone tied around his neck and be thrown into the sea. He told them that if they wanted to be great, they had to become servants of each other. If the apostles wanted to follow Jesus and become real disciples, it seemed an impossible task – and it seemed as though this required more faith.

In my reading of the gospel story, I think Jesus was saying, “Do you think faith is something that I can increase or decrease? Do you think that if you had faith the size of a mustard seed you could tell this tree to go plant itself in the sea and it would?” And then Jesus goes on to the story of the worthless servants or unworthy slaves or useless slaves – all different ways of translating the Greek words in which the gospel was written. In any event, we are sort of shocked by this phrase and even by the whole story – the slave who comes in from working all day is expected to continue working until all his work is done. It would be ridiculous to expect his owner to wait on him. And assuming the slave did everything how could he be worthless, or useless? One of the commentaries I read said that the Greek word used here means something like “Not owed anything”. But it's still shocking.

Our problem is that we don't see slavery the way Jesus and his disciples did. In that time, a lot of the population were “slaves”. They were “owned” by a master until they worked off a debt; or they might have been captured in a war and given to wealthy landowners who had the muscle to keep them under control; or they might be people who had sold themselves into slavery because that way they could be guaranteed food and shelter. And we meet all of these kinds of slaves in scripture. People did not have the kind of image of slavery that we have today. It was part of life, and Paul calls himself a “slave for Christ” and John says that “although Jesus was divine, he took on the form of a slave”.

One thing about slaves in that time – there was a general understanding that the master took care of his slaves – remember the story of the prodigal son? There the son remembers that his father's slaves have abundant bread to eat.

So I hear Jesus telling his disciples, and that's you and I, that first of all, what they are asking of him no one can give; real faith depends on doing what you are supposed to do, day after day, year after year. If you say, “I've done all I am supposed to do” that's a false statement; as long as you are alive there is more to do. But on the other hand, Jesus is saying that you are like a slave in the household of a master; you have a place, you belong, you are secure. You don't have to earn your place and you won't be thrown out.

We don't like to see ourselves as slaves, especially as worthless or useless slaves. We don't like the idea that if we only had enough faith, life wouldn't be such a struggle, and that God could make things a lot easier if we could work miracles, if we could easily forgive, if we could avoid making mistakes as we raise our children or try to run our businesses and our households.

But we have been made members of our Father's household; we are adopted brothers and sisters of His Son, who became a slave for us; and the faith we are talking about is not a power that makes us into perfect or powerful human beings. Real faith is not power, it's not agreeing with certain truths, it's not the same as believing in God. Real faith is trusting that God has our real interests at heart, that He wants the best for us, that regardless of the circumstances, he will look after us and do everything in his power to take the slaves we are and raise us up to be His sons and daughters in the life to come.

And that is what makes our lives not only tolerable but joyful.

Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 16:19-31

When I was young I lived in a community where almost everyone was Caucasian and Christian. We had a couple of Jewish families who were merchants, but they went to the Episcopalian Church. There was an African American family in town and a couple of Chinese families, who of course, operated Chinese restaurants. And there were a few native Americans. Our little town didn't have a problem with a few people like this and my father would often point to their presence as evidence of our tolerance.

My grandmother, on the other hand, had many interesting ideas. She knew that Polish people were basically mean. She didn't think much of Native Americans, and when a cousin of my grandfather announced that he was one eighth Sioux Indian, my grandmother had a fit, because of it was true she was married to someone who was one eighth Sioux Indian, and that wouldn't do at all. My grandmother had no love for the Irish, and it wasn't until I was in my late teens that I learned, not from her, that her own mother had been an Irish immigrant.

Prejudices soak in. In our town the people we all looked down upon were the “bums” who lived in the South End where most of the bars were. We referred to them as “winos” and laughed when we saw them sleeping in an alley or staggering down the street.

When I went off to college I had classmates from all over the country, in fact, all over the world. And as I got to know them, I learned that they could not be dismissed with a label, but they all had stories; they had families, they had people they loved; they believed in their religion, they loved the place in which they grew up. As a practicing physician I had patients from all walks of life. I learned that gay people and lesbians also had stories. Regardless of their life styles, they were rounded human beings, they had loved ones, they had ups and downs and goals and ambitions just like I did.

I think today Jesus is not talking about rich and poor, or asking the those who have a lot of the world's goods help out those who don't. Those are definitely things he wanted his followers to do, but he's asking more of us in this story.

Because, you see, I don't think the rich man was a sinner. I think he was a neurosurgeon or a trial lawyer or a financial planner or a banker – and I think he probably did pro-bono work or volunteered at his church and helped raise money for his favorite cause. And he wore an Armani suit and had a Rolex and drove a Porsche. And he had lunch at the Federal Club. And when he was downtown he saw what you and I see, a woman pushing a shopping cart, a man with a cardboard sign stating that he was homeless – maybe someone muttering to himself and rolling his eyes. People you would walk around and not meet their gaze.

We know that Jesus wants to reconcile sinners with God. We know he wants brothers to forgive each other before they offer sacrifice. We know he doesn't want Jews and Gentiles to hate each other. But for people to bridge the gulfs between them, they have to know each other's stories. Because once you know someone's story, they cease to be a member of a class, and become real human beings to you.

And that's really the rich man's sin. He never saw Lazarus as a brother, a fellow human being, a child of God. Not only does the rich man ignore the poor man on his doorstep during life, but even after death he asks Abraham to send Lazarus to put some water on his tongue; and when that doesn't work, he asks that Lazarus be sent to his brothers to warn them. Lazarus to the rich man is not a fellow human being, he is a thing, a member of a class, something to be used.

Is Jesus saying that people like that will go to hell? Not really. Jesus tells this story before he has won salvation for the human race. In those days people who believed in life after death believed that people would get justice in the next world, but it was all one world – Hades, or Sheol. The rich man is suffering because he does not see Lazarus, and indeed everyone else, as persons. In fact, of all the people on the earth, he is only concerned about his brothers; he doesn't want them to end up in his situation. But even there it's not because they are people; it's because they are blood relatives; they are “my brothers”. He wants to spare them because they are all that is left of him.

The man who never took the time to know the story of the person on the street, the one who is not like myself, will always be impoverished, because he will not see reality; he will only see an illusion, a reflection of himself. The rich man is not suffering in the next life because of a particular sin he committed or even a series of sins. He is suffering because he has cut himself off from other people during his life. His punishment is self-imposed, and even after death his attitude toward Lazarus does not change.

Part of being a Christian is to help those less fortunate, that's true. But maybe a maybe an even more important part is to overcome those things that divide us, those things that make us look at each other with suspicion, that make us cross the street so that we don't have to confront someone who is so different from us. Because when you think about it, almost all the problems in our world that have to do with people start because we don't make the effort to know the other person, to learn the other person's story.

I am the rich man. I don't get a kick out of fine clothes or fast cars, but I do enjoy food and I like the fact that I have enough money so that when I want something I can have it. There are people I meet every week that I don't really want to know better. Most of the time I am like the rich man and I step over him, or around him, or ignore her. But now and then I am kind of forced to stop and listen to his story. And once I've done that, that person is no longer an it, but now a you. During the rest of my life I ask God to help me so that I will always notice Lazarus and go out of my way to see him as a person. And once I recognize my brother or sister, I can't very well ignore their needs.

Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C

Luke 16:1-13

I always had trouble with this parable. Is Jesus praising someone who is dishonest? Is he talking about a master who laughs off his dishonest servant's further dishonesty? And then Jesus gives us some statements that don't seem to add up: Making friends with dishonest wealth? Being trustworthy with dishonest wealth? Is your wealth and mine dishonest?

I think what throws me off, and maybe you as well, is the description of the steward calling in his master's debtors and having them write off part of their debt, hoping that they will then welcome him into their homes when the servant gets fired.

In my reading, I found out that the servant had every right to do that. A steward would build his commission in to what was charged. And the commissions were strictly prescribed; fifty percent for olive oil, 20 percent for wheat, and other percentages for other commodities. It was recognition that although the master owned the land and the produce, the steward was the one who had to organize the harvest, and that meant paying workers. Whatever was left over he could keep. So our steward is simply writing off his commission. Those who owed the master money suddenly found themselves with more money in their pockets, and presumably, felt more favorable to the servant.

So we have a steward who is accused of squandering his master's property, and at the end of the story the master commends the dishonest steward. I suspect the steward was chronically dishonest, and that's what got him into trouble. When he was caught, he figured out a way to turn his situation to his advantage. That's why he is commended.

I think that's the situation Jesus and his listeners envision when Jesus interprets the parable for them. But Jesus goes on to make several statements about wealth and honesty and responsibility. When our translation says “dishonest wealth” the original Greek would be more like “the wealth this world values”. And that makes a little more sense. Jesus is telling us here that how we deal with our wealth has an impact on eternity. But at the same time, wealth is like nitroglycerin -- it can destroy us if we don't use it properly. And if you are like me, you've had trouble in your lives with that. How do we strike the right balance?

Because as Jesus says, it has to do with honesty. I know a family where the mother has a full time job and the father holds down two full-time jobs – reasonably well – paying jobs, too. And they have five children, all still young. Something seems out of balance. Maybe they are saying, “we are saving for our children's college education” or “we are saving so we don't become a burden on our children in our old age”. I'm not judging them, but if it were me, and I was honest, I hope I would recognize that whatever the reason money was getting in the way of my responsibilities to my family.

And Jesus is pointing out that more important than money are relationships – the steward, after all, uses wealth to form relationships. And that's another danger of worldly wealth – it has the power to come between people. If I have wealth, it follows that some people will try to take it away from me in some way or another. We get phone calls all day long asking for donations or offering to come to our house and see if we need something they are selling. And if some people will try to take my wealth, am I not going to be suspicious, even a little bit, of everyone? And if I don't have enough to get by on, won't that color my relationships with those who have more than they need?

And Jesus is pointing out that worldly wealth brings about responsibility. John Wesley, who founded the Methodist church, begin his career as a teacher, and had a salary of 30 british pounds a year. He lived on 28 and gave a way the other two. But as his salary went up, especially after he became a speaker in great demand, he continued to live on 28 pounds a year and gave away everything else. (They didn't have inflation in those days). He saw wealth as the opportunity to be of service to others. I think it's interesting that we Catholics contribute on the average 386 dollars per family per year to our parish church – even though that is the source of the most important things in our lives – the mass and Holy Eucharist, the source of reconciliation for our sins, the education of our children in our faith, and all the other spiritual benefits that flow from being members of a parish. In the Assembly of God, by the way, the contribution per family is about 1700 dollars per year.

And Jesus ends his discussion of wealth with the statement, “..No servant can serve two masters...You cannot serve God and mammon”. Some of us may have heard that mammon is the demon of wealth, but that understanding dates from the middle ages. In Jesus' time, mammon referred to profit, surplus, that which you have but don't need. And Jesus is simply saying – those of us who have more than we need are constantly faced with a choice; do we use that surplus for God or do we live for that wealth? Here in our wealthy town of Longmeadow, we need to be especially sensitive to what Jesus is telling us. Are we using our surplus wealth to store up in heaven what really matters?